The Adventure of the Clay Rune
by Sherlock Emrys
Summary: Something I started the other day whilst bored. Holmes and Watson investigate a mysterious murder, where not even the weapon is certain. An artist is found dead in his rooms and the weapon is found in his enemy's hands... ABANDONED
1. Chapter 1

**AN: My first try writing in this style. I'm not completly happy with it, because it was very hard for me, but here you are anyway. I'll update when I remember.**

**Chapter One**

As I dig through the annals of our work for further cases that become chronicling, this stands out as an excellent example of my dear friend's methods of deduction and examination. His theories and abilities have already been told at length, but this example is so fine that it would be a shame to leave it unrevealed.

As I presented it to my friend, however, it became apparent that my opinion was not shared.

'Do just as you like,' he responded, waving a languid hand through the smoke of his pipe. When I expressed my shock at his unaffected languor, he responded with the incredible statement that his powers were hardly tested to the limit in this case, and indeed they were almost detrimentally slow in this instance.

Despite my friend's unenthusiastic feelings, however, the case deserves a place in the annals of the great detective Sherlock Holmes, and I shall therefore relate it as best as I can whilst devoid of my friend's burning intelligence.

One day in a sunny August, an unfathomable crime occurred which was scarce regarded by the rest of London as having any significance at all. It was marked by barely a paragraph in the evening papers, and was furnished with only scarce details. I passed over it entirely and would never have given it a second thought had not Holmes, with his infallible eye for detail, spotted it and flung down the paper with an exclamation.

'Is something the matter, Holmes?' I asked, for I was somewhat accustomed to my room-mate's eccentricities.

'I believe,' answered he, 'that I have found myself a case.'

I was relieved to hear this, for without anything to exert itself upon my friend's formidable mind became stagnated and he had often in the past turned to unsavoury means of entertainment as a result. I was, however, bewildered as to how Holmes could possibly know that a case existed for him and indeed that he would be engaged upon it. I therefore asked him such.

'My dear Watson,' he responded, 'you are well aware that I am given any cases that bewilder the police. Undoubtedly this will do so, for the details in this paper, scanty though they are, tell me that there is rather more to this incident that meets the eye.'

'But are you sure that the police will engage you?'

'Well, well, I don't insist upon it. I feel certain that it will be the case, but you may feel at your liberty to disagree.'

There the matter appeared to rest, at least for a day or so. Holmes was nonetheless reenergized by the prospects of exerting his brainpower, and indeed was almost lively as he lounged around the rooms. The sound of a violin soared through all my waking moments, underpinning life at 221b Baker Street, and a new chemical experiment appeared overnight on a workbench.

On the Wednesday, news arrived as Holmes had predicted. The pageboy showed up our visitor, Mr Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who took a seat with a face like thunder. As he lit a cigar, he wasted no time in getting down to business.

'It's a dashed queer business we have here, Mr Holmes,' he opined. 'No doubt you've heard.'

'Do tell, Mr Lestrade, for the benefit of Watson here.'

He glanced at me with a kind of unwilling admission. I am afraid that I have such little input into the cases of Sherlock Holmes that many of his visitors are reluctant to regard me as even necessary to existence.

'Well, Mr Holmes, it concerns the death in suspicious circumstances of one Mr Arthur Bradley. The case has not been much publicized, so-'

'He was stabbed, was he not?'

'He was indeed.'

'And you have not yet found any clues? Dear me. What are our police forces coming to?'

'That is hardly fair, Holmes.'

'Perhaps. And yet-'

Holmes had lit his pipe and was smoking furiously, having sunk into something of a brown study. Suddenly, the ascetic features were mobilized with that disturbing suddenness peculiar to him.

'Mr Lestrade, have you any ideas concerning the weapon?'

'Only the basics.'

'These being?'

'The post mortem has established that the sole cause of death was stabbing. A single wound, caused by a blade not more than one inch in width.'

My friend sat up.

'Well, I should be very happy to help you. Watson, I would be obliged if you would call for a cab. I suspect that we can accomplish more by visiting the location of the incident.'

Lestrade rose. 'If you will excuse me, Mr Holmes, I have another appointment. You are, of course, welcome to the crime scene at anytime. The address is 5 Yeomanry Street, in the Whitechapel area.'

He doffed his hat to us and left. As his footsteps receded down the stairs, Holmes sprang up with one of his remarkable bursts of energy.

'Come, Watson,' he cried, 'Let us visit the home of the late Arthur Bradley. I am sure that this case has a great deal of potential.'

I followed him down the stairs and into the now waiting cab. I had learnt by now that it was no use questioning Holmes during the early stages of a case, for he tended towards the secretive and his answers were cryptic at best.

When we arrived at 5 Yeomanry Street, I confess I was a little disappointed. It was the smallest and grubbiest building I had seen for some time, standing in a row of similar houses in a dingy street, full of squalor. Grubby faces showed at dirty windows, before being whipped out of sight behind grimy curtains. The few greasy-faced urchins who had been playing in the street at our arrival quickly removed themselves, leaving the area seemingly deserted.

The constable currently in residence to guard the area let us in at a knock. The interior was more than matched to the unprepossessing squalor of the exterior, and the sputtering fire that burnt in the grate of the dark kitchen leant very little warmth to the room.

'We would be very much obliged to you, sir, if we could see the room where the body was found,' Holmes explained after presenting his card.

'Very well, Sir,' the constable replied, leading us up a flight of aged stairs. They creaked under our feet as we ascended.

The room where the body had lain was as unattractive as the rest of the house. As I glanced around, even my mediocre intelligence could deduce that the late Mr Bradley had been an artist. Holmes' eyes were darting everywhere and, I felt sure, taking in far more detail than my cursory inspection.

On a desk in the centre of the room lay a shapeless mass of some grey substance. Moving across the room, I saw that it was clay, dried and hardened over the days. It was stained with a horribly familiar reddish substance.

'Why, Holmes,' I exclaimed, 'there is blood over that desk! Surely that is where the man was killed?'

'I think that in this instance you are correct, Watson,' he responded. 'And I can further tell you that the clay was in the process of being worked when the murder was done.'

This was beyond my ingenuity.

'You see, here, how the blood marbles the clay? It could only have dried into it like that whilst damp.'

Holmes swung his gaze around the room.

'I wonder, Watson,' he said thoughtfully. 'These paintings all seem to feature one lady. If you look closely, you can see the similarities.'

I peered at the works scattered about the room. Sure enough, the female figures had a marked similarity between them which would have been more pronounced had the late Mr Bradley excelled further at his craft.

'But what bearing can that possibly have upon the case?'

'Well, we shall see.'

Holmes then proceeded to subject every item in the room to the most abject scrutiny. I and the constable stood by during this procedure, moving to one side whenever Holmes required us to do so. Finally he stood up, signalling that he had ceased.

'I have found very little of further note,' Holmes informed us, 'save that the victim had correspondence with one Ronald Hartwood on an irregular basis, and with one Malcom Princely on a marginally less frequent occasion.'

'These factors have already been checked, sir, and are under investigation by the Yard,' the constable informed us deferentially.

'And, of course, there is the curious matter of the marks in the clay.'

'What marks?' I queried. Holmes stood aside.

'Pray examine it for yourself.'

I did so, and was astonished to see a queer set of marks engraved deeply into the clay as if pressed in.

'Why, what can they possibly be?' I cried.

'I have a suspicion,' said Holmes, 'and yet I am not quite certain of my idea.'

'If you will permit, sir,' the constable interjected, 'What marks are these?'

We showed him the marks, which had been hidden by a sheaf of papers over the desk which Holmes had moved aside.

'There was no mention of these earlier,' the constable remarked. 'Well, blow me down if you haven't got yourself one over on us again, sir! Our thanks for this.'

When he had bustled off to communicate the news, Holmes turned to me.

'You see, Watson? Our police are wonderful beings, but they are so often guilty of that most basic error- simply failing to look.'

I refrained from comment, knowing that my friend was rather more in favour of the police than he made out.

'Do you think that there is any particular hope for this case then?' I enquired as the cab rattled back to Baker Street.

'Hope? My dear fellow, when is there not hope?' Holmes replied, and would not be drawn further on the case that day.


	2. Chapter 2

II

The next day, Holmes had left before I awoke. When he returned, I was just finishing my breakfast. After helping himself to dinner, he proceeded to regale me with the results of his activities.

'I have here, Watson,' said he, flourishing a piece of paper, 'An exact copy- mark for mark- of the singular inscription upon the clay.'

Upon the paper that he displayed there was indeed what appeared very much to be a copy of those odd impressions.

'And have you gleaned anything of their meaning?' I enquired. Holmes shook his head.

'I have not, as yet, deciphered the message, but as I believe I said the other day, there is a glimmering of light. The inscription is unlikely to be key to the case, but as yet there are really very few clues to go on. I have been talking to the worthy Constable Browning, whom you met the other night, and I believe I have gained an accurate picture of the deceased.

'Mr Arthur Bradley was a lonely man. He rarely ventured into society. His parents passed away some years ago and he has no other relations. His only contacts were art dealers who occasionally deigned to purchase his work, and his patrons who commissioned portraits.'

'What of the people who you said were his correspondents?' I replied.

'I am getting to them presently. Mr Ronald Hartwood is also an artist. They appear to have corresponded on a professional basis, and it is clear that there was no love lost between them. Mr Hartwood is also a collector of sorts, a fact which may be significant.'

'And Mr Princely?'

'He was another friend. He readily wrote to Mr Hartwood on a number of occasions, apparently concerning little more than their friendship. Mr Princely, incidentally, is engaged to a Miss Knox.'

'How does that fact impinge upon our case?' I asked. Holmes shook his head.

'You must learn to allow me to finish, Watson. I was about to say that Miss Knox is the girl whom we noted as having been depicted in a great deal of the paintings.'

'And how does this affect the case?'

'It is too early to say, and yet I must note that it is somewhat abnormal for one single sitter to work for any individual artist quite so much.'

'You think that there may have been something there?'

'There is no evidence to show that that could have been the case. Most likely, he simply felt that she was an excellent model.'

My eye wandered down to the marks upon the paper. I could not shake the feeling that I had seen them somewhere before.

'Holmes,' I said suddenly, 'Are those marks simply invented?'

'I already said-' my friend began irritated, having sunk back into a brown study. He stopped, and sprung from his seat with a cry that I must confess alarmed me.

'Watson, you have quite astonished me! For the very first time, you have managed to arrive at the correct conclusion before I!'

Well, although he meant it as a compliment I am afraid to say I did not find this especially flattering and from any other man I would take it as an insult. However, I am used to Holmes' eccentric ways and am prepared to forgive him his peculiarities.

He had rushed to his shelf of books, within which there is guaranteed to be a paragraph or so upon any subject that one can possibly imagine, and was searching through tome after tome, all else forgotten. At last, having apparently found what he had been searching for, he sank down upon the floor with the volume balanced on his knees, all else forgotten.

From experience, I knew that my burning curiosity would have to wait, since he would never deign to respond to me once he had begun his researches.

The next day, I entered the sitting room for breakfast at around eight, only to discover that my friend had covered the table in assorted papers and books, left a chemical experiment with a most foul smell upon the side and collapsed in an armchair beside the fire. He was still sleeping, evidently having been up late the night before. Sighing, I set to work to clear the table as best as I could, for I knew that he hated anybody to disturb his papers.

Having eaten a disrupted breakfast around the clutter, I crossed to the fireplace with the intention of awakening my friend, only to find his chair empty and he vanished. I stood in bewilderment for a moment. I would take an oath that I jumped a foot into the air a moment later when Holmes' voice sounded behind me.

'Well, Watson, I have solved the little mystery of the runes. However, the infinitely more dull matter of the murder is still somewhat opaque.'

Turning around, I saw Holmes fully dressed and breakfasting from my leftovers.

'My dear fellow!' I exclaimed forcefully. 'You are really the limit. You very nearly induced a complete cardiovascular failure in me, moving like that.'

'Ever the doctor, eh Watson? Still, I am very sorry if I caused you any fright.'

'No matter,' said I, already recovering from my shock. 'But what have you found out about the runes?'

'Ah, the runes!' Holmes groaned. 'I have been most intolerably slow and there is no excuse for such stupidity. They are, purely and simply, the decoration on the handle of a dagger! These runes are part of the Nordic alphabet, the Futhark.'

I had felt before that the symbols were familiar, and I now remembered having seen them at museums and such like. My friend, however, was not elated at his discovery. On the contrary, he was quite despondent.

'Cheer up, Holmes,' said I. 'At least we have a clue now as to the nature of…' But I was not allowed to finish.

'This dagger had no bearing on the mystery. I have been barking up the wrong tree all along!' cried Holmes in despair, flinging himself down upon the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. Recognizing the signs of one of my friends inevitable tantrums, I merely shrugged and reached for a paper. Suddenly, a thought struck me.

'Holmes,' I enquired, 'Do you have any idea of the size of this dagger from its handle?'

'From the width of the hilt,' my friend said abstractedly, 'It might be around an inch…'

'Why, then,' I expostulated, 'It may have been the murder weapon!'

Within a second Holmes had sprung upright upon the sofa and crossed the room to where the paper with the engravings upon it lay abandoned upon the floor. Tossing it aside, he caught up a book from below it and rustled through the pages with alarming speed.

'Watson,' he called as he searched, 'Wonders will never cease! You have hit upon precisely the thing that I had been trying to think of! And in doing so, Watson, you have given me a vital clue in the unravelling of this little conundrum!'

I did rather resent the 'Wonders will never cease' remark, but my momentary pique was soon cast aside as Holmes found what he had been searching for.

'Here, Watson, you see?' He displayed the page that he had found. It displayed a detailed etching of a blade, a little longer than your average knife. It had a carved grip running around the hilt, etched with markings that were apparently very similar to those found in the clay. Underneath it was a label and a few lines of explanation. Holmes read it aloud.

'"The sax, also known as a hoggsax or handsax, was a short dagger used by Viking raiders. It would have been around an inch in width on the blade, and the very best workmanship was often decorated with carvings." Well, Watson, I think that we have found our blade.'

**AN: Okay, that's it for now. I will update at some point, but it's usually best to consider my stories on permanent hiatus. I'm sorry this is so rubbish. I'm not even gonna ask for reviews, I know it's garbage.**


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